Into the Downs
by RedSavant
Summary: With the Scourge foothold in Kalimdor growing stronger, young Sylehil Wildmane is sent by the Warchief to clear out the monsters' den known as Razorfen Downs. But let's face it - she won't be able to do it alone. A 'novelization' of Razorfen Downs.
1. Moving Out

**I know it's been a while since I last posted anything, but perhaps this'll tide you over while I work on my longer-running stories. This one I've had around for a _long_ time, two or three years now, and it still holds the distinction of being the story I've reworked most. This is one of a few 'novelizations' of dungeon runs I've written -- I may post the other one, depending on the feedback I get -- as the title suggests, this one is Razorfen Downs, while the other features some of my other characters assaulting Maraudon. But enough from me -- enjoy!**

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It was a familiar formula: a mismatched band of quirky but lovable heroes, all with massive and oftentimes glaring character flaws, banded together to defeat the ultimate evil (or at least the next best thing to it). That type of story often began with a mysterious meeting with an ominous cloaked figure in a dark tavern. That was the way things worked. Everyone knew that. So… why wasn't anyone stopping?

Sylehil Wildmane groaned and threw off her cloak angrily. "I shouldn't have bought a black one," she muttered. Black was all well and good, but it made you almost _too_ inconspicuous in, say, the shadowed corner of an inn. For three days now the young Tauren had been sitting inside the Red Axe Tavern, sole watering-hole and place of repose for the weary travelers who passed through the Crossroads. By all rights there should've been a queue of heroes lining up to join her quest. The only person to talk to her in those three days, however, had been the barman Krusk. Lurking was thirsty work.

"Maybe we need to start looking more actively," she said to the tawny cougar lounging by her side. Eruhil stared languidly up at her, his brown eyes identical to hers; the taming process, by means of which the hunter bound her mind to a creature's and the creature's to hers, was not without its physical side effects as well. The faintest whisper of a mental shrug brushed her mind – Eru was quite content to lay on the rugs by the fire, it seemed. Sometimes Sylehil envied the big cat his ease of life, but not today. The most important thing now was to clear out the festering hive of Scourge and undead Quilboars known as the Razorfen Downs.

Standing briskly, Sylehil strode out of the inn and into the dusty square that gave the Crossroads its name – the town was little more than an outpost, really, but its location made it both a highly strategic and poorly defensible outpost. Not a good combination… but the bright sun today would keep any Alliance well in view.

"Listen up," she shouted, her words whisked away by the cruel Barrens wind almost before they left her throat. Grimacing against the windswept dust as the wind picked up, she tried again, with much the same result – but this time she felt a hand land on her shoulder, making a slight clinking noise against the mail epaulets that still felt so unfamiliar to her. Turning, she was met with the rather unpleasant red-stained grin of a female Troll wearing sinister-looking leather armor. The effect was ruined slightly by the tall white ponytail the rogue sported; though she was at least a foot shorter than the Tauren, the ponytail made up for more than half the difference. "Come in, mon," the Troll suggested, hooking her thumb toward the Red Axe.

Once seated out of the blowing wind, the Troll leaned eagerly over the stone table toward Sylehil. "Name's Kiv, mon," she said. Sylehil found herself leaning away; she had nothing against Trolls, but Kiv's enthusiasm had drained the blue-skinned woman of any concept of personal space. "Heard dere was a weird type lookin' for folks to help out wit' sometin' aroun' here… guess dat was you, eh?" She grinned again. Sylehil, having almost found her bearings by that point, lost them again. The disreputable-looking Troll talked so fast she was nearly a goblin, and she was certainly short enough to be one. More worrying, however, were Kiv's teeth: she had obviously filed them. It was like being grinned at by a Goblin shredder.

"Yeah, that's me," Sylehil said, pushing Kiv back into her seat. "The Warchief himself has tasked me with destroying all the Scourge in Razorfen Downs. I can't do it alone, but it needs to be done. From the Downs, they could easily attack Camp Taurajo, and after that it's only a few days' march to Thunder Bluff…"

She trailed off as images of the Scourge's undead horde ransacking the Tauren capital filled her mind. Shaking them off with an effort, she continued. "Anyway, you see the problem."

"Yeh, mon, I do," Kiv said, looking up from her sharp nails, which she was currently picking at with a hook-ended dagger. Sitting up again, she tossed the knife casually into the air. "I'm in," the rogue said, her sentence punctuated by the dull _thunk_ of the knife's hook sinking into the wooden-beamed ceiling above them. Looking up, Kiv sighed resignedly and stood on her chair, tugging at the weapon's haft.

-

The dagger was still stuck in the ceiling the next day as the pair prepared to leave, which partially explained Kiv's foul mood. The Troll woman snapped at an obviously green Forsaken warrior, literally rattling him as his exposed bones clicked together; she seemed ready to take on an entire regiment of Silver Hand paladins, "holy" magic and all. Her mood seemed entirely out of character with the jovial figure Sylehil had met yesterday, and did not invite inquiries as to its cause. So, of course, she had to ask.

"What's with you, Kiv?" the hunter asked as they walked. The enchanted reins that would summon her kodo mount, Walker, were strapped to her belt. Kiv showed no indication that she had a mount of her own, though, and Walker's saddle wouldn't fit two, wide as it was.

Kiv started, half-turning and fixing her red eyes onto Sylehil. She ran a hand through her hair and sighed, pivoting to walk backwards for a while. Shading her face with one blue-skinned hand, she squinted down the road the way they had come; Sylehil was faintly unnerved to see that her eyes were slightly luminous. "Someone's followin' us, Sylmon," she said, finally. "Oh, I know who it be, alrigh'," she assured the hunter, who was furtively looking behind herself. "Das' not de problem. Problem is, is _who_ it is."

She said no more, despite the Tauren's best efforts to the contrary, and remained sullen and silent until they reached the Barrens Ravine, little more than a glorified ditch that neatly separated the arid Barrens into northern and southern halves. Upon seeing the sole bridge over the cleft, though, her still-disturbing grin broke out and she quickly urged Sylehil and Eruhil underneath the span. Climbing onto one of the bridge rails, she quickly disappeared from sight. Even with the heightened senses of a hunter, and knowledge of the rogues' stealthing magic, Sylehil could barely spot her. Still… it was easy enough to spot the person she had alluded to earlier, merely a dot against the horizon but growing larger at a fair clip.

Details were only poorly visible in the gathering gloom, but it was obvious that the pursuer was a Troll. For one thing, the cyan-scaled raptor he was riding bore the brand of the Darkspear Trolls, those allied with the Horde; for another, less contestable reason, he was blue and sported some of the largest tapered ears the Tauren had ever seen outside of the Night Elves of the Alliance. It was easy to see, at this moment anyway, how the crackpots that theorized the Night Elves' magically-fuelled evolution of sorts from Trolls had come upon their belief.

Kiv sucked in a breath, tensing as the rider approached. As the raptor's claws thudded into the first plank of the bridge, she leapt, catching the rider around the neck and rolling off into the ravine. Sylehil joined the panicking raptor on top of the bridge, grabbing the reins hastily and attempting to calm the beast down. The wicked foreclaws on the raptor's heavily muscled feet could pose a danger to anyone nearby if it went charging around wantonly.

Sounds of a scuffle could be heard over the edge of the bridge; Sylehil peered into the ravine, but cautiously. She had glimpsed Kiv's tendency to throw knives before. The pursuer was on his back, one bare foot planted in Kiv's stomach. She was leaning over him, futilely attempting to stab a second hooked knife into his robed chest. Kiv's balance shifted slightly, sending her toppling over; her knife stuck into the ground and she landed on top of the stranger. Now it looked like she was trying to kiss him, though the man's tusks got in the way. The Trolls gave it their best shot anyway, then just as suddenly returned to the mortal struggle that had been going on earlier.

Sylehil was confused. Despite having just finished her second year in the army of the New Horde, she had never spent much time around Trolls, Darkspear or otherwise; she had a vague notion that this was a sort of display of affection, though it looked somewhat dangerous. An intervention seemed to be in order.

The short hop off the bridge made Sylehil stumble for only a second, but it gave Kiv and the stranger ample time to scrabble off each other. Kiv was breathing harshly, and the other Troll – a male with a heavily tattooed face, shoulder-length green hair and the most singularly massive nose the hunter had ever seen – was dusting off the incredibly bright red robe he wore. "Heya, mon," he said, retrieving his jauntily-feathered hat and tipping it to Sylehil. "Nice t'meet joo. Kiv be workin' witchoo, den?" An area of untattooed skin in the shape of a wide V on his forehead made him look rather more serious than he did with the hat on.

The Tauren nodded, perplexed again but recognizing a good situation in which to remedy it. "First off, who are you? Why did Kiv attack you?" she asked, her tone echoed by Eruhil's low growl as he came into view behind the mage. To her surprise, the man flushed a darker blue. "She be very affectionate," he mumbled. Straightening as much as the habitually hunched male Trolls could, he practically radiated willingness to change the subject. "Name's Jusambin 'Fireeyes', mon," he said. "Master o' da arcane arts an' suchlike, capabilly of astoundin' feats o' magic an' pyrotechnics, an' and I also sell food an' water. Wan' some?"

With a bright flash of light and a quiet _pop_, a loaf of what appeared to be sourdough bread appeared in the mage's outstretched hand. Cautiously, Sylehil accepted it; it was indeed sourdough, though it tasted a bit like the air after a close lightning strike. She judiciously put it down.

"Why joo here, mon?" Kiv asked, red eyes suspicious. "Joo weren' jus' ridin' down de road ta Razorfen Downs fer no reason."

"Dis road goes lots o' places," Jusambin replied airily. "Why, joo goin' ta Razorfen Downs?"

"No," replied Kiv firmly. "Sylmon, we be goin'. Jus, joo follow us, I swear joo gonna lose dose tusks offa joo."

"Mebbe I jus' come witchoo far enough ta see where I ain' goin', den," Jusambin offered. "Wouldn' wanna go dere by mistake. I like my tusks."

Kiv made a noise that sounded like she was choking back an obscenity. "Sylmon, kin I talk to joo? Ova here?" The slight Troll took Sylehil's arm and tugged her a few yards away. There was no use trying to totally escape earshot in such flat and, moreover, quiet terrain – especially with the ears in question belonging to a Troll – so Kiv settled for lowering her voice.

"Syl, I didn' wan' joo ta meet dat guy," she muttered. "'E's a charmin' fellow butchoo can' trust 'im as far as joo kin t'row 'im." She considered Sylehil for a moment. "'Specially as far as _joo_ kin t'row 'im."

"He didn't seem that bad," the young hunter replied. "If Eru hasn't attacked him yet, he certainly doesn't mean us any harm."

"Yeh, well, 'e never _means_ it, does 'e," Kiv snorted. "De problem is, we kinda need 'is 'elp. He be a damn powerful mage, an' joo can' shoot a spell outta de air." She heaved a sigh. "Yup. We gotta let 'im come alon', fer awhile at leas'."

Kiv and Sylehil turned as one to look at Jusambin, who was currently juggling several balls of fire with his eyes closed. Every now and then he would drop one, eliciting a good-natured curse, a _foomp_ noise and a small mushroom cloud. "Already seemin' like a bad idea," Kiv muttered. Sylehil had to stop herself from asking why it was such a problem -- despite Kiv's openness up to this point, the female Troll looked like she'd rather not discuss it. She'd returned to the hook-ended dagger, still stuck point-first deep in the sand, and was grimly tugging on it with an air that said that the chest of anyone who disturbed her would be her next opponent in the fight to retain the weapon.

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**Troll accents are _so much fun_ to transliterate. You have no idea. I hope Kiv's mostly comprehensible despite it.**

**Next chapter'll be up in a few days. I've got two and three-quarters written, so we'll see when the third goes up.**

**Please remember to review!**


	2. Not A Good Thing

**And voila, part two. I'll be working on Part 3, but it's a ways away from a postable length as of yet.**

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As hostile as Kiv seemed to Sylehil, the Tauren found herself enjoying Jusambin's company as they camped for the rapidly-approaching night in the shallow ravine. A ball of magefire averted the frustrating chore of gathering wood; what skinny trees there were in the Barrens were few and far between. The mage also knew a seemingly endless supply of ribald jokes, all told with a large grin and absolutely no shame. Several of them were in Zandali, a guttural language Sylehil knew nothing of; these seemed aimed at provoking Kiv into laughter, and only rarely broke her from her scowl.

As the fire died, Sylehil unpacked her bedroll and chuckled as she watched Eruhil carry around a stick Jusambin had used to supplement the blaze at one point. The thin branch was still adorned with faintly glowing embers, and every now and then Eru would shake his head rapidly and watch, fascinated, as the stick glowed or a new spark drifted lazily into the cooling sand.

"I knew it, you just like shiny things," teased the tall hunter, ruffling her fingers through the cougar's neck fur. "You magpie." Unperturbed, he shook another spark off the stick. The bright point against the sand reminded Sylehil of the stars, and she looked up with a contented sigh. Mu'sha, the left eye of the Earthmother, shone brightly, dwarfing her tiny sisters and brothers – the souls of departed Tauren – in the night sky's velvet blanket.

Sylehil had heard once, from a young-looking Night Elf, that Mu'sha (he had called her Elune, but it was easily forgivable – the Night Elves, after all, lived under the boughs of the World Tree Teldrassil, and few things disguised Mu'sha as effectively as tree branches!) had been brighter, once. Sylehil supposed that she was still grieving over the loss of her son, Cenarius; still, she could hardly imagine a brighter Mu'sha than the one who shone tonight.

The light of the moon illuminated the campsite well. Mixed with the last flickering shadows of the dying magefire, the pale curtain gave the scene an unearthly quality. Underneath the bridge, past the dark bulk of Walker and the whipcord slenderness of Jusambin's raptor, Sul'ai, Kiv unpacked her bedroll; the light that filtered through the thick Ashenvale wood caused the few tattoos on her face to all but glow.

Her meditations were interrupted by a quiet crackling sound from behind her, followed by a hugely contented purr from Eruhil. Jusambin hove into Syl's view, chuckling as he unpacked his bedroll. A few seconds later, Eru followed, intent on his branch: the mage had relit the end, bringing new embers into being.

Sylehil chuckled herself as Eruhil lumbered down next to Jusambin, coming perilously close to setting his robe on fire with the smoldering stick. The mage scooted judiciously away, nodding to the hunter. She watched curiously as the mage dug around in his pack, finally extracting a small wooden case and a large leather-bound tome. The case was fronted by complex-looking bronze scrollwork, but seemed to have no lock and no lid; Jusambin muttered a few syllables and it popped open. Despite herself, Syl's eyes widened. A magic box!

Jusambin reached a pair of slender fingers inside and pulled out a pair of pince-nez spectacles; the lenses were green glass, and he settled them on the end of his prodigious nose with the ease of habit. With a snap of his fingers, a small levitating ball of magelight appeared at the end of his index finger; he held it over the pages of the book as he read. It seemed much easier than using kodo-tallow candles.

After a few minutes, Jusambin looked up at Mu'sha and dismissed his magelight. It was only then that he seemed to notice the young hunter.

"Beautiful, ain' it?" he asked, pointing upward. "I could neva see de moon when I was growin' up in Stranglet'orn. Too many trees."

Sylehil absently ran her hand through Eru's neck fur, eliciting a deep-throated purr from the cougar as he sat down next to her. "Like Ashenvale? I'm not used to trees, myself," she added. "The only place I ever saw them was in Stonetalon… before the goblins got to it, anyway." Her face darkened for a moment, but it passed.

Jusambin chuckled. "Yeh, kinda like Ashenvale. De trees ain' purple, tho', an' dere ain' any elfies in Stranglet'orn." He stretched, a languid motion, and leaned back onto his bedroll. "I miss de ocean. De waves, de sun, de salt spray on joo face…"

Syl snorted. "Salt spray? From the water?"

Jusambin looked at her, surprised. "Joo neva swum in de ocean?"

"I've seen it," the hunter replied, a bit defensively. "But we never really went to the coast in our travels."

"Das' sad," the mage said, shaking his head. "Das' real sad. Joo gotta go dere someday an' do dat. Mebbe visit Ratchet. Das' an int'restin' town, dat is."

"We ain' goin' ta Ratchet, Jus," Kiv cut in firmly. Sylehil jumped; she hadn't heard the rogue approach, even with her enhanced senses. "Joo remember which way sout' be? It's de one dat doesn' go ta Ratchet."

"Joo came in at de wrong time," Jusambin replied easily. "I was jus' tellin' Sylmon dat she needs ta go…" he trailed off; Kiv had already started walking away. A strange expression flickered over his face for a moment, but the shadow cast by the brim of his hat made it impossible to read. "'Nigh', Syl," he muttered, turning away brusquely. Somewhat confused, Sylehil watched Kiv clamber back onto the bridge and perch herself atop one of the supports. There was bad blood here, and it ran deep, perhaps deeper than Syl could go.

But she resolved to try anyway.

-

The next day dawned bright and early, even if the sun wasn't technically up yet, when Eruhil trod on Syl's stomach.

"Bwaugh!" she sputtered, throwing the cougar off her with a sort of twisting roll. She pushed herself to her knees and eyed the big cat darkly. "Eru, what'd you do that for?" she muttered. Though he couldn't answer her with words, Eruhil practically radiated excitement as he stared at the south edge of the ravine. Grumbling, Syl dug her hooves into the soft sand of the rise and began climbing.

A flat and entirely unremarkable stretch of dirt met her at the top of the ravine, and she turned back to Eruhil in annoyance. "You woke me up so I could see more of the Barrens faster?" she asked. "Kiv and Jusambin aren't even up yet. We can't leave until… we…"

The thin black line stretching vertically from the southern horizon hadn't seemed that remarkable when she'd first mounted the incline, but now its full import slammed home with the force of a stampeding kodo. She leapt back into the ravine and started cramming her bedroll back into her pack.

"Jusambin! Hey! Jusambin! Wake up!" she shouted, slinging her pack haphazardly onto her shoulders. "Eru! Go get Kiv, we've gotta move!"

The lanky mage sat up groggily. "Wha's goin' on, Sylmon?" he asked, yawning. "Joo ain' suppose'ta get up when joo clothing is colored brighter den de sky, joo know."

"Get up, now," she replied tersely. "We have to get moving."

"Why?" grumbled the mage, starting to pack away his magic box.

"Hey, Syl, joo see dat pillar o' smoke to de sout'?" Kiv cut in, joining the two. "Only one place big enough ta make a fire dat big."

"Camp Taurajo," Sylehil finished grimly.

-

Camp Taurajo.

Like its northern cousin, the Crossroads, Camp Taurajo was a product of Tauren wanderlust and the New Horde's teachings of stability and defensibility. It sat at the eastern end of the only road through Red Rock Pass, the single safe entrance into Mulgore, and at Chieftain Bloodhoof's urging the defenders had agreed to build a permanent settlement. The end result was mixed; the huts within the camp were sturdily built, but the walls were made of stretched hide and wood. When she had first traveled through the outpost, Syl had marveled at the extent of the defenses, but now as she rode Sylehil found herself worrying: _not enough, not nearly enough_.

Kiv had commandeered Sul'ai for the run; Jusambin clung determinedly to Sylehil's waist as he bounced along on Walker's hindquarters. Eruhil easily kept pace, his sleek golden form sometimes darting ahead to check over a rise or behind a tree. Every time he circled back, Syl felt his frustration grow – and under that, she felt his worry. A subtle sense of wrongness pervaded the Barrens this far south.

Sylehil heaved back on Walker's reins as the massive kodo crested a small hill. Downslope, about five hundred yards away, Camp Taurajo lay nestled among one of the few oases of green in the Barrens.

Even from this distance, something looked wrong about the camp. A huge number of people bustled around the dusty square. The midmorning sunlight glinted off polished scalemail and silvery plate, scattering sparks into Syl's eyes. She raised a hand to rub at them.

It nearly cost her her life.

Before she could lower her hand, there was a terrific screeching sound and she was tackled out of Walker's saddle onto the slope of the hill. Syl vaguely heard shouting from above, but distractions like that were nothing in the face of the shrieking monster she was now entangled with.

The original blow had forced the edge of her helmet into her forehead, slicing the skin. She caught only glimpses of the creature through the blood dripping into her eyes. She could still smell, though, and rather wished she couldn't: the creature reeked of rotten meat, excrement and some other, somehow worse, smell.

Sylehil could feel the slope lessening, and her heart jumped. The monster was far stronger than she, and only the constant tumbling of the fall had so far prevented it from crushing her head, helmet or no. Thus, necessity, and simple logic, made her plan of attack clear.

The hillside gave way to flat ground, and Sylehil disengaged the monster. She rolled to her feet in a fluid motion, staggering only a little. The creature lay on its back nearby, thrashing; Syl bared her teeth in something more resembling a snarl than a smile and stamped – hard – on the monster's face.

There was no satisfying pulping sound. Instead, her hoof seemed to hover just above the monster's jaw. Sylehil frowned, then her eyes widened in realization. The thing had caught her hoof in its _teeth_. Her balance threatened, Syl reached for the nearest thing at hand – her little skinning knife, as it turned out. Dropping to one knee, she drove the blade into the creature's eye. Its thrashing ceased almost immediately.

Syl let out a relieved sigh and pulled her knife free, sticking it into the sand to clean it off. Walker and Sul'ai thundered down the hill seconds later, coming to halts of varying grace; the Trolls had dismounted before either beast hit flat ground.

"Sylmon, joo okay?" Kiv asked, concern written all over her face. "Tell me joo ain' hurt."

"I'm fine," the hunter replied, surprised to find that she was honest. "I just got a cut on my forehead from my helm. It looks worse-"

"-Den it be, yeh, I know, we got dat sayin' too," Kiv interrupted her, peering intently at her forehead. "No wounds from de ghoul? Scratches or bites?"

"None. Is that what that was?" Sylehil felt a chill run through her. Scourge, north of Camp Taurajo? Had the plate-clad strangers halted the Bluffrunner patrols?

"Yeh, dis looks like joo stan'ard ghoul alrigh'," Jusambin muttered, inspecting the corpse. Eruhil, radiating contrition that he hadn't been able to help, bumped his head gently against Sylehil's thigh; she scratched his ears reassuringly.

"See all dis rottin' flesh an' such?" Jusambin was saying, pointing our various features of the grisly mess. "Das' real quick an' messy work. Fastes' an' easies' way ta necrot'ingy someone, but dey ten' ta fall apar' on joo an' dey can' only spread de Plague if dey bitechoo."

"Well, das a relief," Kiv breathed, before turning back to Sylehil. "Sorry, Sylmon. I know joo kin take care'a jooself." She handed the hunter a roll of magewoven bandages, which Syl gratefully accepted.

"Spent much time on the front lines, have you?" a new voice asked as a shadow fell across the party. Syl cursed inwardly; the blow to her head had thrown off her natural tracking ability, and the party had been too focused on the ghoul to remember that the plate-clad occupiers were still unknowns. She turned, hand on her sword.

The newcomer was seated on a huge, armored stallion, which pawed the ground – eagerly! – at the stench of the ghoul. The rider wore silver-chased plate; a tabard of deepest black bearing a silver sun ascendant seemed to shimmer oddly even in the shade.

Jusambin, to whom the question had been addressed, did not answer straightaway. Instead he stepped away from the ghoul and closed his eyes. Nothing happened for a moment, though Syl could hear a quiet litany of nonsense syllables. Suddenly the corpse was ablaze, and it was quickly reduced to ash in its personal blue-green pyre.

"Enough," the mage finally replied, nodding to the rider. "Who joo be?"

A laugh barked from the slit of the steel helmet. "Straight to business, eh? I like that." With a clink of steel on steel, the rider raised gloved hands to remove its crested helmet. "Watch Commander Alaris of the Argent Dawn, at your service."

Syl's eyes widened. Some mad doctor had merged the pale skin and fine hair of a human with the proportions and glowing eyes of a Night Elf, and the result was this man. "Come on back to town," the Watch Commander added. "We've got a lot to talk about."

**----------**

**And the plot thickens. Why is the Argent Dawn here...?**

**You'll find out eventually!**


End file.
